


Lawn of the Dead

by Aisene



Series: Manchester Lost [4]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Plants vs Zombies
Genre: Don't ever humour Uriel, M/M, No one remembers what happened at the end of the last thing we did, Pure Crack, the crossover no one wanted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-17 14:29:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18100364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aisene/pseuds/Aisene
Summary: Sequel to Paradise Thwarted (nine years later!). Crowley is bored again.  He really should know better by now.  (Or, the crossover no one wanted or asked for).





	Lawn of the Dead

Crowley’s afterlife was almost insufferably boring.*

 

The world had ended, but demons and angels still trudged on, with the souls of decent humans floating around to round it out.  Little ever changed – without humans, creativity was mostly gone, which meant technology ceased marching and Creation was enveloped by peaceful stagnation… and had been for _one hundred years._ Oh sure some things were inevitable - there would always be cockroaches and Twinkies and new iPhones - but If Crowley had to watch another episode of _House Hunters_ or drink another cup of thrice-damned tea he was going to scream.

 

In a word, he was bored.

 

Of course, the last time Crowley had complained about boredom, Aziraphale had been shot and Crowley had been subjected to all sorts of suffering – fiery dragons, demonic betrayals, apocalyptic destruction, disgruntled weasels, the literal end of Humanity except as the occasional ghost – so he knew to keep his mouth shut.  But silently, and to Aziraphale who had no such worries about complaining, Crowley would admit that the world was definitely a worse place without all the humans in it.

 

But there were some benefits to life nowadays.  For example, living in the countryside led to this amazing thing called _outside gardening_.  He still had a few of his indoor pots of course, but he and Aziraphale went through a bit of a turf war for the indoor space that Crowley had regrettably lost, leading to the mass relocation outside.  It was nice, though, because _more space_ meant _more plants_ and _larger plants,_ plus the additional subjects for experimentation.  

 

Yes, like every child with a mandatory science experiment, Crowley got to enjoy the pleasures of subjecting his plants to various types of music, fertilizer, speeches, and torments to determine what helped them grow the most, with mixed and surprising results.  To make it even better, Crowley’s closest neighbor was this guy who had _the best seeds_.  Crowley hated him, even though he had never met him in person, but he could not deny that he was a premiere botanist.

 

The day that the world spited Crowley for being bored yet again began with a box and a letter on the front porch.  He hadn’t had a chance to grab the package before Aziraphale did, so he took the letter and went back inside.  “What’s that?” he asked as he ripped the envelope open.  

 

" _The Winds of Winter_ finally came out,” said Aziraphale with glee, placing the tome on the table next to his mug of cocoa.  “I have to say though, if Margaery dies the same way she does in that television show, _I will be farking pissed off._ ”

 

“Uh huh.”  Crowley decided to let that go.  He looked at the letter, and read it to himself: 

  

 _"Hi_

_Plz give us angle brians_

_Theyz tastee_

_Were cummin 2 c u 4 dinner_

_Brians on a planes_

_(Not reely butt we luv rimes we iz smurt)_

_L _uv_ _Zombees_ " _

 

“Huh,” said Crowley.  He looked up to make some snarky comments about obtuse or acute Brians, but Aziraphale was in the study in his pyjamas and that was that, he would be silent until he was done reading.   Crowley sighed and looked out his window, wondering to himself how he was going to make the plants suffer in retaliation.

 

There was a zombie on his lawn.

 

“There’s a zombie on your lawn,” sang the sunflowers that were in front of the windows, which was new.  Both the singing and the zombies, not the sunflowers.  “There’s a zombie on your lawn!”

 

“Singing? Seriously?” he asked. The sunflowers didn't change their tune or message, so Crowley went back onto the porch and walked into a warzone.

 

“Brains!” declared the zombies as they slowly shambled up the cobblestone path.  In response to this aggression, large pea plants had sprouted and were shooting bowling-ball-sized peas at the zombies while the sunflowers sang their little ditty.

 

“What?” asked Crowley, because he had to say something.

 

“There’s a zombie on your lawn!” the sunflowers continued to sing, “We don’t like the zombie on your lawn!”

 

He sighed.  “Ask a stupid question…”  

 

Really, zombies?  He wondered if he should contact Raphael, the ultimate Anti-Zombie, but maybe it was just this bunch here… And he'd have to talk to his angel first about involving his dad because Go- Someone forbid he get his father-in-law involved unnecessarily...

 

When the last little zombie died under pea attack, he heard and then saw his ghost neighbor Crazy Dave drive up in his rundown pickup truck.  As mentioned before, Crowley hated the guy.  Not only did he actively call himself “Crazy Dave” and that was really just trying too hard**, especially with the pot on his head, but more importantly car connoisseur Crowley wanted to set his truck on fire and dance amongst the flames.  Not that Crowley had ever seen him before, but he could make those snap judgements right now, thank you.  “The frick, Dave?”

 

“I’m _Crazy_ Dave!” the guy retorted, peering over the dead zombies on the lawn.

 

Crowley blinked.  “Uriel?”

 

“You can call me Crazy Dave,” said the person who was actually 100% Uriel.

 

“Uriel?   _You’re_ Crazy Dave?”

 

Uriel stomped his foot in irritation.  “Oh come on, can’t you humour me even a little?”

 

“No.”  Crowley had learned to never, ever, humour Uriel.  “Have you been the neighbour all this time?  That explains why the seeds you sent me are now defending me from zombies…”

 

“I am very talented,” Uriel agreed.  “But yes, the zombies.  It’s neat, huh?  I don’t know why they’re attacking.”

 

“Pestilence,” said Crowley.

 

“Maybe.”

 

“No, it’s definitely Pestilence.”

 

“But maybe not.”  

 

“It begs the question of why he’s still around, given Humanity is largely gone.  And why he’s attacking.”

 

“Hey, no one remembers what happened at the end of the last thing we did,” Uriel protested.  “That was like a hundred years ago.  Don’t start confusing me with details.  As far as I know it, we have no idea where these zombies came from and why they’re here.  Speaking of here, here, have a walnut!”  He handed Crowley a giant nut.  “Now let’s go bowling!”

 

Crowley threw it at his head and went back inside.

 

Uriel called after him: “Hate CU x351199873822

CU are Cucks. For Freedom!

Spread the message! Mary” ***

 

* “Almost,” because an excellent sex life will compensate for a lot.  


** If Crowley had ever called someone “Crazy” anything, he would’ve gotten booed out of Hell for poor taste.  

*** If you get really bored, check out the reviews for Manchester Lost on fanfiction dot net.  Someone else got even more bored than you are.  


 

* * *

 

 

Crowley’s ritual when Aziraphale was engrossed in a book was to lay on top of him, not obstructing his vision, and pester him.  It was a delicate dance of ‘keeping a tiny part of his attention’ and ‘not getting smote for being an irritant.’  “Why does your grandpa hate me?  Every time I get bored, something terrible happens.”

 

“Mmhmm.”

 

“Well, I guess if I had to pick something, I’d choose zombies over your uncle Gabe any day.”

 

“Mmhmm.”

 

“Speaking of, it turns out our neighbor Dave is actually your uncle Uriel.  Why is your family so weird?  I feel oddly violated.  How long has he been there?”

 

“Mmhmm.”

 

“And also kind of inadequate.  Because I have been spending literally decades on these plants, but the seeds he gave me are the best ones.”

 

“Mmhmm.”

 

Crowley sighed.  “By the way, we’re under a zombie invasion.  They want your brains.  I might just let them all in.”

 

“See how well that goes for you,” Aziraphale murmured.  

 

Crowley pouted and left, having been successfully thwarted.  He'd forgotten to bring up Raphael, oh well*. Then he gasped in horror as he saw his lawn covered in _fungus._

 

**_“No!” _ **

 

 **_“Yes!”_ **  Uriel declared, “I did sleep in my truck until you came back outside.  What took you so long?”

 

“I don’t care about _you!_    Why is my lawn covered in _mushrooms?”_

 

“To protect you from zombies.”

 

This turned out to be true, as another horde of remarkably straight-walking zombies began to walk up his lawn, only to be repelled by the fungus.

 

“This is almost okay,” Crowley said.  “At least they’re useful, but ugh. The aesthetics are all wrong - mushrooms are supposed to be used in moderation!”

 

“But you’re worried about protecting poor baby Zizi and will accept help from anything?” Uriel asked brightly.

 

Crowley scoffed.  “Oh no, no no no no no.  Don’t forget he’s a Cherub now.  If those zombies get to him… well if I cared about the zombies, I would worry for them.  But instead I’d just lament the loss of half my lawn as collateral damage.  So no, I’m invested in keeping the zombies away, but not because Aziraphale’s in danger.”  He snorted as he imagined the holy smiting that would occur***.

 

“Oh.  Well… it looks like the mushrooms saved you from the zombies.  You should thank them.”

 

“No.”

 

Uriel sighed, rolling his eyes and reminding Crowley of a teenager being told to go to bed early.  “You’re absolutely no fun at all, you know that?  Oh!  I have an idea for how you can fix it!”  He handed Crowley a mallet.  “Let’s play whack-a-mole!”

 

Instead Crowley played whack-a-Uriel and went back inside.

 

* He hadn't forgotten, he'd been too… uh... cautious** to ask about him.

** Afraid.

*** Though it was true he'd still protect him, even if it was unnecessary. And even if he had abandoned him to books.  Stupid spark of goodness.  Ugh.

 

* * *

 

The following day, the zombies invaded the backyard, and Crowley gave up.

 

He glared at the plants and zombies through his window even as he called Raphael, because zombies meant Pestilence, and Pestilence was all about being sick, and Raphael was all about healthy, and Crowley had played enough DnD over the years* to know that divine energy beats zombies.

 

He could hear a musical tone indicating an arriving angel in the library, and rolled his eyes.

 

“Zizi, it’s making noise again,” he heard Raphael say.

 

“That means someone is calling you.”

 

“And what does that mean, again?”

 

“It means someone wants to talk to you.”

 

In that moment, Crowley felt a rush of pride.  Aziraphale was a work in progress, but thank someone he wasn’t the worst.

 

“Yes but there isn't a receiver. That is the word, right? How do I pick it up?”

 

Oi. Crowley walked toward the library. “Hey Raph. I was the one calling you.  Now you don’t have to answer.”

 

"Aw, well I am here now." Raphael put his phone back into the doctor's bag he carried with him, treating it gingerly as if it were an explosive device of some sort.

 

Crowley had to take a breath to stop the frustrated snarky comment that he really wanted to make.  "So, what are your thoughts on zombies?"

 

"I despise those movies and they give Uriel nightmares. Or do you mean the kind that Pestilence used to make?" Raphael said _Pestilence_ as if the name were a dirty word.

 

"Definitely the Pestilence types.  Shambling, like to say 'brains' a lot, really bad at grammar."  To illustrate his point, Crowley pointed out the window.

 

"It's not Pestilence and I do not have nightmares!  I give other things nightmares!" Uriel declared this but convinced no one.  The fact that he was hiding in the sunflowers was a decent sign that he was full of it.   

 

Some of the plants had adapted to the pool to stop zombies from coming through that way.  This was a good call because zombies with snorkels and... dolphins... were trying to do just that.  

 

"Look!  It's a dolphin!" Uriel cheered.  "Say the line, say the line!"

 

"No."

 

Raphael blinked. "Oh dear. That is indeed a zombie invasion.  Uriel, darling, what did you do?"

 

Uriel was pouting.  "So you're saying dolphins are fish?"

 

"I said _no_ , Uriel."

 

“Uriel, did you create these zombies yourself?"  Raphael was in pre-serious mode.

 

Uriel pouted more.  A zombie walked up to him and handed him a letter.  He read aloud:

 

_"Hello.  Thanks for the pool partee but we didnt bring snackz._

_Plz to be giving us angle brians._

_We iz hongree from all the swimmin._

_Love, the zombees._

 

Awwww.  They asked nicely, maybe we should give them some angle brians..."

 

"They mean angel brains. Uriel _Ûrîʾēl_ did you accidentally create them?" Raphael demanded.

 

Uriel flinched.  "I don't think so.  I made the plants. Not so sure about the zombies.  But anything is possible if you believe in yourself."

 

"Then the answer is yes, Kireawel, it is Pestilence," Raphael said in a sweet voice that was terrifying. "Please excuse me for a moment."

 

"Yes sir."  Crowley knew better.

 

Raphael went outside and pwned. And then when he was finished, he pwned some more.  Crowley would have felt sorry for the zombies if they, well, weren't zombies.  Uriel cheered.  And then Raphael wiped off his hands, extinguished the fires, miracled the bewildered plants unharmed and marched up to Uriel. "We are going home young man." He turned to Crowley.  Crowley flinched, just because.  "You take good care of my Zizi and yourself, dear. And make certain you call again if you need anything. You will, yes?" Raphael was very, some might say too, smiley.

 

Crowley nodded.  "You uh, when you get a call, you hit the ‘accept’ button on the screen.  To, you know... accept the call."

 

"Ohhhhhh," said Uriel as if Crowley had imparted great wisdom.

 

"The answer button... Is that the odd green c that appears?" Raphael asked.

 

"... That's a phone."  Raphael was the smartest dumb person Crowley knew.  Not that he'd ever, EVER, say that out loud.

 

"Oh. I see. Like a....receiver...yes?" Raphael asked.  "How quaint. Well. Be a good boy, Kireawel. Tell my Zizi I love him!" With that, Raphael dragged Uriel Up.

 

Crowley let out a heavy sigh.  Finally things were back to bor -- normal.  Back to normal.  He could return to pestering Aziraphale in peace.

 

* He roleplays as a bard.  Don’t you dare typecast him.**

**Although, okay, he'd been a rogue once or twice and also a swashbuckler, and a paladin for the lolz although that tended to piss people off because most members of the celestial choir have no sense of humor.

 

* * *

 

Crowley was lounging on Aziraphale again - only 100 pages left until this interminable madness was over!  Crowley wasn't sure he could last that long, but he'd try his best. 

 

(Aziraphale had been pretty mum on the topic of what, exactly, he was reading.  Crowley was perfectly happy to accept _Game of Thrones_ instead.)

 

His pleas for attention were interrupted by the cottage shaking and plaster from the ceiling falling nearby. "Motherfucker!"

 

"Watch your language."

 

"But the cottage is falling down!" He waited for a response and didn't receive any. "Aziraphale," he said in a completely adult and mature tone.

 

"Mmhmmm."

 

Crowley hissed under his breath, which was impressive. "I guess I'll go see what's trying to kill us now. Since you're busy."  Crowley sighed, walked outside, and floated up to the rooftop.

 

The plants had amassed an impressive force to combat the undead, flinging everything from butter to watermelons at a horde that featured gargantuar zombies and smaller ones on pogo sticks.  It was madness and mayhem. And yep, there was Pestilence, in a giant mech, on the roof.

 

" _Behold,_ my ---- wait, who're you?"  The old man scratched his head.  "Do I have the wrong address?" He pulled out his iPhone 699+ Super Omega and typed something in with his index finger.  

 

"Brains," said a zombie.  A plant hit it in the face with a head of lettuce.

 

Crowley could have said a lot of things. "Get the @#$& off my lawn!" was what he went with.  "And really? Really?!? _YOU HAVE THE WRONG HOUSE???_ NO WONDER THE HORSEMEN DISAPPEARED!"

 

"Language," said a zombie.

 

"No no no, this is definitely the right address, but  _you_ are not an angel!  Confound it all!"  Pestilence let out a wheezy sigh.  "Listen, I don't suppose you know where I could find an angel brain.  My horde has a very specific taste and nothing less will do."

 

"Brains," said a zombie, nodding.

 

Crowley crossed his arms. "I'm not going to tell you where to find angel brains, although I should tell a couple of angels where to kick your ass."  He'd text Michael. Michael would have fun. He was also less likely to go Captain Ahab on Pestilence than Raphael…

 

Pestilence tsked.  "Temper temper.  And we're all still around, thank you!  Death is on vacation, Pollution is building a retirement home in Chernobyl, War has a cat sanctuary and Famine is trying to crossbreed water hemlock and corn!"  He sighed again, which made him cough.

 

"Sounding a little sick there. Maybe you should stop hanging out around decaying things.   _Somewhere else."_

 

"I could use another vacation, but I spent nearly a hundred years on sabbatical!  I almost was out a job, but one fake paper started a trend called 'anti-vaxxing' and then poof! Full time career with great hours and benefits, thanks to Jim and Jenny!"

 

"Uh, humanity has been dead for over a hundred years, genius."

 

"Pshaw!  No one remembers what happened at the end of the last thing we did!"

 

“Whatever, you aren't hearing me. Take your zombies and get the ##$& off my lawn and away from my angel! Who could murder all of you in his sssleep, by the way, so leave! Shoo! Go find a cemetery to hang out in!"

 

Pestilence sighed.  "Come on boys, let's - wait!  An angel _does_ live here!  This means the address we found on Raphael's MySpace profile was right!"  

 

"Raphael doesn't live here you twit!"

 

"No no no, he posted pictures on the MySpace about his precious baby Zizi!" Pestilence began to prepare his mech for battle.

 

Crowley facepalmed and wondered who had made the account for his dad-in-law.  Putting on the address screamed Uriel, although frankly Raphael was so internet not-savvy it wasn’t out of the question he’d done it himself.  Regardless, Crowley would need to destroy it after he played zombie bowling. Did he just say that? Ugh.

 

(The aforementioned precious baby had turned to the last page of his tome, only for all the moving above to dislodge his cocoa, causing it to spill on the final paragraphs. Aziraphale sighed heavily, put down his book, took off his glasses, and grabbed his sword.)

 

Crowley threw walnuts (Crazy!) Uriel had apparently left on his roof like a confused squirrel, even as the plants continued to barrage their foes.  Rows of zombies were falling, so victory was very possible.  Even if Crowley absolutely cursed the pogo-stick zombies a thousand times over because seriously, fuck those guys!

 

Then Aziraphale arrived on the roof, sword already aflame and tartan bowtie blowing in the wind (somehow), and victory was assured.  "Hello," he said, voice quick and monotone.  "If you have a death wish, I can oblige you."

 

Pestilence scowled and rechecked his notes.  "Wait a minute, _you're_ the Zizi?  Aren't you supposed to be a principality?"

 

"No.  Goodbye, Pestilence.”

 

Crowley grinned and summoned a flaming tyre iron for nostalgia. He didn’t need to, but he did anyway.  "I told you my angel could destroy you in a second."  It was a little excessive for him to say it, as Aziraphale had gone zombie slaying while he spoke, but it felt right anyway.

 

When the battle was over and Pestilence had been driven into retreat, Aziraphale sighed.  "Well, at least it was a terrible book."

 

Crowley looked at him, affronted.  “You came out for the book. Great."

 

“And you," Aziraphale reminded him.  "And... your garden… apparently…”

 

The plants cheered for their victory, and some began dancing.  The sunflowers changed from chorus to verse, but Crowley cut the party off with a wave of his hand.  Then he smirked at his angel.  “Tell me some more about how you like me more than your books.”

 

Aziraphale just looked at him, sighing fondly.  "You're adorable.  Come inside, I'll make you some tea."  With a small smile, Aziraphale floated to the grass below and went inside.

 

“Ugh, tea,” Crowley grumbled before catching himself.  Nope, the destruction of his lawn and the singing flowers was _not_ worth the interruption to the monotony.  He would just smile, nod, and take the tea.   _No more complaining._

 

Well, at least for the next hundred years.


End file.
